Royal Flush
by BlackRose89
Summary: Juniper O'Reilly wants one thing: out. OUt of Ireland, to leave behind her, small, sad, poverty-strivcken world. She knows in her heart she was meant for bigger things. Can the R.M.S Titanic bring her to her dreams? Or will it shatter them in the end?
1. Default Chapter

Royal Flush TITLE: Ace of Spades AUTHOR: BlackRose89 RATING: PG-13 for some language use as well as a few adult situations. DISCLAIMER: All characters and references to the movie, Titanic, belong to James Cameron. All original characters and plot belong to BlackRose89. In no way am I affiliated with James Cameron, or the movie Titanic, and I am not making any money from this. This goes for all chapters. SUMMARY: Sixteen-year-old Juniper O'Reilly has always dreamed of a bigger, better place then her small, two-room house in Cork, Ireland that she shares with her mother and sister. She has always wanted to travel, and make a name for herself, she has always wanted to be one of the luxurious rich and famous, and when she gets the chance of a lifetime, to sail to America, aboard one of the grandest ships ever made, the R.M.S Titanic, she jumps on it. But will her life-long dream end in disaster? AUTHORS NOTE: This is my first Titanic fan fiction, and since I'm not really all that great at writing sequels, I decided to just make up my own characters. I greatly appreciate reviews, and constructive critisicm is awesome! Flames are not appreciated, although I will accept them because everyone is entitled to there opinion. I would also appreciate it if you read and reviewed my other work on this site, as well as my work on fiction press (penname: BlackenedRoses89) and now, onto the story!  
*~~~*  
Pa always said that life was like a good game of Poker. You never knew what hand you were going to be dealt until the dealer handed it out to you. And then you had to work with what you got. You gambled on what you may or may not have; all the while pretending you did have something if you didn't. You could discard some cards only to be dealt more in hopes of getting better ones, while others you could not discard. Even after you were dealt different ones, there was a chance those cards could be just as bad or worse. Sometimes it was better. And if you had some skill and a lot of luck, you could end up winning more then you ever had. Just as easily, though, you could lose all you're life earnings and then some, and there was always the chance of breaking even. Even though my Pa dropped out of school when he was eleven, he was an intelligent man, knew a lot of stuff most learned folks never even thought about. He didn't need any books; his learning came from life experience. And I tend to think that's all you need, although Ma used to force me to go to school until Pa died. I think he's right about poker, too.  
I shuffled the worn deck in my hands, my Pa's lucky deck. My Ma gave it to me after he died; I expect she knew it gave me a sense of comfort. We'd play poker almost every night, after supper and before bedtime prayers. Sometimes he let me stay up late on Friday nights and we played late into the night. We didn't bet money, of course, but it taught me logic just the same.  
I lay out on the porch swing, head resting on the cushioned seat and stared up at the stars, my fingers still playing with the cards subconsciously. The sky is so vast, with all those tiny little stars. Billions of them, I expect. It's such an inky black, like the color of the ink in my inkwell at school, and the stars punch holes in it, attempting humbly to bring light upon the darkness. Pa often said that the sky is like the world, so huge and amazing, uncomprehendingly so, and the tiny little stars were al the people, shining and twinkling, in an often-vain attempt to be known, to be different. I believed this as well, and I was no different. I wanted to get out of this place; there was no doubt about it. There was too much sadness, to much grief all around us, to much poverty. I often heard people talking about places that weren't like this, places like America. They say the streets there are paved with gold. I wonder if that's true. It sounds so amazing! I'm sure I could be someone special, be important in this world, if only I could escape my humble little abode, it's all I've ever known. And though I do love the rolling green hills and the endless stretch of forests, all a lush green, dotted with cottages and small shacks, with a cool, blue river gurgling and giggling as it meanders through the forest, I want to see other places, with new scenery, and meet new people. I will miss it dearly, when I go, if I go.  
My Pa used to sit out here with me at nights. We didn't speak much; we didn't feel the need to, that's the difference between my Ma and my Pa. It's lonely here without him, because in a strange way I felt that he was my soul mate. Not romantically, of course, God that would be strange, but more in heart, mind, and soul. We thought the same kind of thoughts, acted the same way, pulled the same dreadful string of Cockney that drove my mother into insanity, and carried ourselves in a peaceful, dignified manner. I lost one of my best friends, and I feel the constant need to fill this lonesome void where my father, my best friend, once was.  
My Pa used to say that I was special; I'd amount to something. I was an extraordinary kid meant to do extraordinary things, like a Royal Flush. For my own sake, I really do hope he's right about this, too. 


	2. CHAPTER TWO: SWEET DREAMS

ROYAL FLUSH  
  
CHAPTER 2: SWEET DREAMS  
  
*~~~*  
"Bloody hell!" I gasp out as I prick myself with a needle for what seemed to be the millionth time. I was mending my torn pillowcase from one of my tormented spurts of rage that had occurred earlier this morning. My Ma gave me a glare that silenced my persistent "Ouch's" as I sucked on my finger. I threw the needle down pointlessly, and stomped on it, just making things worse for myself.  
  
"You really do need to learn to keep that temper of yours in check, Juniper," My Ma said crisply from the kitchen where she was making a supper of potatoes and sausage. That was all we ever ate, every meal included potatoes, it was really sickening after awhile.  
  
"I am in perfect control of my temper, Mammy, thank you for your concern, though," I said smiling through gritted teeth. She just shook her head and went back to the pot. There was silence for a time, and I attempted to concentrate all my energy into the sewing. Sister Katherine, one of the nuns who taught at the school I used to attend, always said I had too much energy.  
  
"So intelligent yet you insist on being so mischievous!" She used to say throwing up her hands. It was true, I was quite the troublemaker, but what else was there to do? And it made for a right good time annoying her 'till she couldn't take it anymore. She was a Norrie, and therefore was raised a 'proper young lady.' She hated it when I caused trouble, and when I spoke like a 'right little toff,' which was her way of saying a smart arse, but she hated it most when I spoke in a string of some of the purest London Cockney. My Pa grew up I Whitechapel, London, and over the summer he'd used to take me there. When I was really bored in the little one-room schoolhouse, she'd ask me to read a passage from Hamlet, or a Sonnet or something, and I'd politely reply,  
  
"I'd 'really like to, Sister, but see I've got to go down the 'Dilly with me Pa today, and get some 'ice 'ot fish an' chips." In which case she'd rap me over the knuckles and then slump down in her desk, head in her hands. Sometimes, she'd snap back,  
"Pronounce you're h's!" 'Cause that's the biggest problem with the quaint Bobbies and lorries down in Piccadilly Circus in Whitechapel that speak Cockney, they don't say there h's, and according to Sister Katherine, it's the worst maiming of the English language she's ever heard. I don't suppose she's ever heard the American accent, it is particularly garish. But anyway, when she'd say this I'd spend the rest of the day adding an 'h' to the beginning of every word known to mankind. The rest of the class found it to be of ultimate hilariousness. Sister K, though, seemed to differ in this opinion.  
  
As much as I despise potatoes, I must admit my ma is a good cook. And so I savored every morsel of the cold potato soup with a side of fresh cooked sausage. It was only the two of us now, because my sister, Rivers, was in America working as a maid, she had traveled as a companion of a first class passenger about a year ago and was now working in the woman's home, and saving up money for us to go over. Because of this, my Ma doesn't cook huge meals like she used to. She also tried to hide it, but I know that we've been getting steadily poorer since Pa died. The only income we have now is from Bryan, the twenty-something young man that lives with us and exchange for board and food he manages our farm and sells the crops. He usually doesn't come back in until late, though, so his dinner is often cold, and he rarely eats with us.  
  
After I had eaten and freshened up a bit, I put on my shawl and walked towards the door.  
  
"Mammy, I'm going to go play poker with the boys!" My Ma sighed heavily and shook her head. My Friday night Poker gang, as I fondly called it, sort of had a reputation of being, well, vulgar. But then again, so do I. Yes, they have mouths that would singe off the ears of a sailor, and yes, they tend to get in a wee bit of trouble, ok maybe more then a wee bit, but they were the only people in this place who dared to live a little, oh and they could play a damn good game of poker. My Ma has expressed to me on many an occasion her wishes for me to go and 'play' with the Collins girls. As nice as they are, they're rather boring to talk to, and they giggle in the high-pitched voices and have all the boys courting them and call pulling themselves into corsets and having to dance around with a bunch of boring young men who will only live about a mile from there original home and make a farm, fun. I do not consider this to be so, at all, and I much prefer my somewhat rowdy group, at least we talk about things that are interesting. My Ma says I'm much to influenced by them. Bollocks. I do what I want to do, when I want to do it, no one influences me; I am completely my own person.  
  
"Fine. But be back by dark, darlin' otherwise I'll have to skin ye alive." I nod and quickly step out into the brisk, evening air, and shiver a little bit as I meander towards Conner's house. Conner Brennan, Sean O'Brien, Jimmy Connelly and I all play poker on Friday nights after supper and before dusk. Well, actually, they play long into the night, but I don't fancy having a row with me Mammy; she's definitely not one to cross, and I already pushed her to the limit on multiple occasions.  
  
I walk briskly, ignoring many little kids stares until I reach Conner's house. Although most kids have been warned about me, this still didn't give them any reason to stare. No one even stared at Jimmy 'less he does something really bad, but they don't do it on a regular basis like they do it to me. Maybe it's 'cause I'm a girl. It's probably because of superstition, though. See, I'm what you call Black Irish. I have long, bone- straight black hair and really pale, almost transparent skin with vivid green eyes. It's a rather odd combination, and really rare too, and it's usually only in Irishmen. Anyways, people who are 'Black Irish' are supposedly hiding some inner evil, like they're in contact with the devil or something. It's bollocks, and sheer madness, seeing as how it's just a rare genetic thing, but people can be so naive. I like it though, it makes me different. That's why Ma and Pa decided to name me Juniper; I got the eyes of the pretty juniper flowers. Rivers has red hair and blue eyes, like a normal Irish person, but her eyes dance and are very glassy, so they look like a running river. Thus, her name.  
  
I slowed when I neared Conner's house. While I live on the borderline of the 'working class and 'poor' area, Conner lives deep in the heart of the poor part of Cork. The houses are smaller and more spread out here, and the land is more rustic, the earth filled with flecks of gravel and the dusty dirt road barrel distinguishable from the wild, weedy hills and mountains. This part of Cork is not good farmland, but it has a rustic, untamed beauty to it. Mountains that are littered with wild bushes and scraggly branches, and moss-covered logs and rocks. It's dangerously alive it has character. I love it here.  
  
I reached the Brennan home and knocked on the door. Mr. Brennan, a small, portly man with salt-and-pepper hair and brown eyes, and was known for his fiery temper and getting drunk often, answered the door. His wife, Conner's mother, had died when Conner was young, and I don't think he's really gotten over it yet. He always pretends to be cheerful, but if you look closely enough, you can see the worry lines in his forehead growing more pronounced every day, and his eyes showed none of the fire they used to have. He smiled at me,  
  
"Lovely to see you again, Miss O'Reilly, come in and make yehself at home." I gave him a polite smile and made my way into the smoky sitting room, where an old rickety, makeshift table had been placed, and around it the four old dining room chairs. The rest of the boys were there and I greeted each warmly. In front of them sat cards and some cheap beer, and in there mouths were badly rolled cigarettes.  
  
Conner was seventeen and had dirty blonde hair and brown eyes. He was the loudest of the bunch, and had the scummiest mouth you'd ever hear, and he also tended to get drunk a lot. Sean had red hair and brown eyes, and his pale skin was so dotted with freckles. He was the quietest one of the bunch, and the baby at fifteen. The guys kind of felt the need to protect him, 'cause he'd lost both his parents when he was young. He lived now with Jimmy, who was eighteen and would most likely be on the run from the law by this time next year. He had dark brown hair that hung in his eyes and brooding, dark eyes. He was rowdy, loud, got into public brawls and was thrown out of every bar in Cork, and proudly stated it.  
  
I took my seat in the last available chair in between Sean and Conner, grabbed a cigarette from Sean's mouth and placed it in my own, and said,  
  
"Deal me some cards, boys." Sean glared at me before lighting another cigarette and Jimmy dealt me five cards. If me Ma ever knew what I did at Conner's house, she'd bury me alive. Scratch that, she'd kill me and THEN bury me.  
  
We played for about an hour, drinking, talking and laughing. We were all great at poker, and I had a large pile of winnings in front of me, including Jimmy's services to me for the next week. Not that'd I make him do much, I wasn't mean like that.  
"So the rich lady was at church last Sunday, why, I'll never know, and someone stole her car while she was there...full-house, boys, that'll be me!" I gave a little cheer and took a sip of beer, collecting my earnings. Jimmy grumbled,  
  
"Oh I did that, but I sold it, so anyway, continue you're story," I grinned at chuckled at him,  
  
"Figured as much. But anyway, one of the farmers lent her his horse and she was like, 'Oh my. Dear Lord, why thank you, but...does he bite?" this sent the table into sniggers, "So I said, well, ma'am, no need to worry, he's a vegetaaarian." I slurred the last part, my brogue very heavy, as I was getting rather tipsy. This wasn't very funny, and was definitely one of my more stupid moments, but the rest of the guys were more drunk then I was, and found it to be completely hilarious. I noticed that the sun was beginning to set, collected my winnings and said bye to the boys,  
"'Till next time, lovelies, and remember the day you beat Juniper O'Reilly at poker is the day hell freezes over, and doves fly out of all you're sorry arses," and sort of stumbled out.  
  
I walked down the pathway home as the blood red sun put on a last, majestic show before disappearing behind the gravelly mountain. Suddenly, I felt a constricting in my chest and my heart started pounding, a lump in my throat, and tears in my eyes. I ran home and began sobbing on my bed, unsure of how or why this happened. All I knew was that at that moment, in my drunk, airy state, I had recognized a raw emotion that I hadn't experienced in a while, utter loneliness; I missed my father. Why the sunset provoked this particular emotion, I don't know, but it did, and although it probably had something to do with me being under the influence of cheap alcohol, it sparked an outpouring of hot, salty tears from my eyes as I became more and more wracked with sobs, ignoring my mothers worried fluttering in and out of the room, and ignoring the darkness that had settled in over the night, I cried myself to sleep. 


End file.
